Blow
by Bonzai-Bunny
Summary: They're pretty and sick; they're young and they're bored. Netherlands/France.  Kink meme de-anon, M for a reason.


Warnings: drug and alcohol use, explicit sex

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia

Authoress Note: This is from the kink meme with the request of the Netherlands snorting cocaine off of another nation's body. It's short, but I wanted to spread the Ned love a little. Surprisingly, he is not the highest person in this fic.

- - - o0o - - -

The bass thrums heavily, rattling Lars's bones as he tries not to stumble—stepping over an unconscious body—to get to a (bedroom?) door. Everything from the tall, industrial walls, to the door knob seems like it's shaking. Voices yell and whoop in the background and smoke is filling the air, making the lights dim and hazy. However, Lars's head is yelling at him, his muscles are tense, his body claustrophobic, and damn his metabolism, because he knows he is nowhere near drunk enough for this.

He needs a pick-me-up, bad.

He shuts the door behind him, muffling the chaos, and after a brief whirl of dizziness, he realizes he isn't alone in the room. From what he can tell, a couple is sleeping/knocked out on a couch, half-stripped. Someone is on the floor, and—Francis. Francis is sitting on the bed, without a shirt, making out with some busty brunette.

It takes him awhile to remember why Francis is there. He was the only one who could come with him that night (where exactly Lars couldn't tell you anymore) because, let's face it, he and Francis don't exactly "hang out." Oh, and Francis was the designated driver.

Francis doesn't seem to have noticed him, if the way his hand is up her shirt is any indication. But he breaks away, grinning, and whispers something in her ear. The girl (whom Lars has mentally named Tits) giggles and gets off his lap, swaying as she does. When Tits rights herself, she winks at him and staggers by. He wonders if she'll be around later.

"I thought I had lost you," Francis slurs jovially, and leans back onto the bed so the tent in his tight jeans is clearly visible to Lars. Francis's carefully curled hair is gone and is now a tangled mess. His eyes are more than a little glazed, his smile too wide, and—damn. Lars would have to call his sister for a ride—that definitely wouldn't be fun.

"Doesn't seem like you looked too hard," he mutters, getting out his materials from his pocket, placing them on the bed, and explicitly ignoring how Francis was running his fingers idly over his junk.

"Ah, I got a little distracted. She was fun, but not what I want," Francis looks up, Lars meets his gaze, sees how impeccably large Francis's pupils are, and thinks that's a very bad idea, he doesn't even know what Francis is on. Lars humors him anyway.

"What do you want?"

The bed shifts, Francis is crawling over to him and eyeing everything that Lars has pulled out.

"I want to be used," he puts his hand on Lars's chest as though he's still trying to be coy, "especially by you."

Lars thinks, looks at Francis's flushed faced, the tent in his tight trousers, knows it's a _very _bad idea, but says,

"Alright," and Francis's mouth is on his. It's messy, far sloppier than he knows Francis normally is, and Lars himself probably isn't up to par. Their tongues intertwine; Francis is lapping in his mouth like a starving man and rutting fervently against him. It's only when the other's hands are on his hips, trying to pull up his shirt, that he gets a wonderful idea. He breaks away and asks breathlessly,

"You want me to use you, right?" And Francis nods his head eagerly against Lars's shoulder with what's left of his curls bouncing.

"Then lie down."

Francis does so readily, giggling softly as he does. His eyes shine with ecstasy and arousal and Lars kisses him once on the jaw before picking up a dog tag and a very small tin container—like the kind used for pretentious mints. He empties the white powder inside the tin on Francis's bare stomach and uses the dog tag to scrape it along, to make sure there are no chunks and it's in a smooth row.

"Hmm," Francis murmurs to himself, loud enough that Lars can hear, staring at imaginary stars on the ceiling, "I wonder what your sister would say?"

"Nothing," Lars growls, rolling up a bill, "because she's not going to find out."

Francis only grins in response.

Then the makeshift straw is against his nostril and he's snorts the entire line. He feels the rush to his head and in a few moments, he feels like diamonds, like superman, and fucking Francis sounds like a wonderful idea now. The other's eyes are beautiful and they seem bigger than possible because of how large his pupils are. His pink lips are full, look delicious, and suddenly, Lars knows what he wants to do.

He tells Francis to sit on the edge of the bed, which he does, and Lars unzips his own trousers and pulls out his cock, which isn't hard yet, but Francis's eyes light with understanding. He smiles before leaning forward and licking the head, teasing as usual. Then he opens his mouth and Lars takes advantage by grabbing Francis's hair (is that _glitter _in there?) and pushing his dick in.

He hopes Francis realizes that it's Lars that is going to be in control of this, and not the other way around, but Francis's cheeks flush around his cock and he lets out a breathy moan.

_Good_, he thinks with a smirk.

So he fucks Francis's mouth, enjoying how the rougher he seemed to get, the more turned on the other seemed to be. Francis had long ago unzipped his jeans and was stroking himself by the time that Lars buries his cock all the way in that hot, constricting throat. Francis's nose is pressed against his pelvis, and he holds it for a while, enjoying how Francis squirms with pleasure, enjoying the picture of his lips covered in drool and precum.

He snaps his hips forward a couple of times and he feels an absolute euphoria coming over him, the climax of his high, heightening his senses, making everything that much more wonderful. The wet, wet heat of Francis's mouth seems more palpable now and Lars's cock is throbbing hard, eager for release. He knows he's close, is practically shaking with it, but surprisingly, Francis is the first one to come.

The blonde gives a loud moan that sends vibrations through Lars's entire body. Francis visibly sags, his eyes flutter half closed, but Lars just growls, continuing to fuck Francis's open and slack mouth. When he does come, he does it hard and deep in the Frenchman's throat. He pulls out and drool dribbles down Francis's chin.

"Merci," he murmurs faintly with a smile, throat sounding raw, and Lars rolls his eyes.

"Whatever. Just don't pass out."

Francis gives that listless laugh of his and somehow Lars knows that he won't. He would probably wait there until that girl or someone else came into the room and for some reason, Lars laughs also. He feels lifted with a euphoric apathy, and the bass thrumming outside sounds wonderful now. It soars in his veins and without a second thought, he leaves the room Francis is in to join the crowd.

Now, it was party time.


End file.
